The Return of a Florida Baseball Friend

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My baseball coach in the ninth grade was a man named Richard Gay. Coach Gay took me seriously the day I walked into his offfice and declared that I wanted to be a catcher. Every year before that year I wanted to be an outfielder or even in my wildest dreams a pitcher but the reality of my first year taught me that if I was going to make the varsity baseball team as a freshman I could only do it as a catcher. I offered up myself to Dick Gay and he accepted the offer.

Throughout spring training (in Wisconsin in March and early April that means playing catch in the baseball gym) Dick Gay had me catching wild knuckle balls thrown by Pat Byrnes and he had me standing over the plate and getting knocked over as my own team mates practiced sliding into home plate. By the end of spring training when we were ready to actually play on a field I felt pretty confident about being a catcher and doing what catchers do best.

One of our first games that year was against Prairie Farm, the town where my father grew up and the team for which he played baseball in high school many years before. Prairie Farm had on its baseball team a kid who was also a track runner. A damned good track runner. In fact a track runner who was so good that he had won the state championship in the 100 yard dash the year before. This sucker could run.

While we were doing warm ups before the game I remember Coach Gay telling me to make sure that every time I threw the ball down to second base I threw it wild. That was against my better judgement because I prided myself on my ability to throw a ball to second base. After all that's what catcher's are trained to do - among other things we throw out people trying to steal second base. However I followed Coach Gay's command and every time I threw a ball to second base it wound up in the outfield or almost hit the pitcher or may have been picked off by the shortstop. Every ball went eveywhere except where training told me it was supposed to go.

In the bottom of the first inning, last years champion in the 100 yard dash came to bat and immediately hit a single. With him on first base I remember scanning the field wondering if I could follow through when this guy tried stealing second base - something everyone expected him to do. Sure enough. When the first pitch was thrown to the batter this kid took off for second base. I threw the ball straight and true and with conviction and I nailed his ass. He was out by several feet. I'd just thrown out the state chamption in the 100 yard dash.

Three innings later this same state champion in the 100 yard dash came to bat again and this time he drew a walk. He trotted down to first base and when he got there I knew he was going to try to steal second base. The bastard was fast - that's what fast runners do. True to form when the first pitch was thrown to the next batter, last year's champion in the 100 yard dash took off for second base. The ball was waiting for him in Keith Popko's glove for a couple seconds when he valiantly slid into second base.

Without me knowing it Dick Gay taught me a valuable lesson about baseball. Its called "ruse." During warm ups he knew that we were up against a very good runner. He also knew that he had a fairly good arm on his team behind home plate. He told me to make my throws to second base look like I had no arm and certainly no accuracy. The Prairie Farm runner took the bait and twice the Prairie Farm runner was thrown out by feet trying to steal second base. No other Prairie Farm runner even thought about trying to steal second base for the rest of the game.

Dick Gay also taught me how to be an aggressive catcher. I remember once having him tell me that "I don't care what you say to that batter I want you to make an ass out of him." When I was behind the plate it was my job to "run" things on the field and if there was anything I could do to distract the batter and give my team the advantage Coach Gay demanded that I do so. Like the time during a game in the 11th grade when we were playing Bloomer High School. For whatever reason I always picked out one kid for merciless heckling. Heckling is part of the tradition of the game and my coach wanted me heckling so I did. For this poor kid from Bloomer I was particularly obnoxious. I remember well in the seventh inning when he came to bat for the third time that game. As he stood there waiting for the pitch I was in his ear trying to distract him. I distinctly remember that day and what I said because as he stood at the plate I made a particularly pointed and suggestive comment about his sister (I had no idea he had a sister but he obviously did). When I described not only what I wanted to do to his sister but where and when he switched the hands on his bat, shifted his feet a bit and swung the bat with full force directly into my catchers mask. His team had had enough of my heckling throughout the game and they cleared the bench. My team came to my rescue and one hell of a fight followed. It was one of the high points of my baseball career. And all I was doing was what my coach had taught me to do - make an ass out of the batter.

Joe Ayrault was the manager of the Sarasota Reds (Class High A) affiliate of the Cincinnati Reds in 2009 when I moved to Sarasota. I hadn't paid much attention to minor league baseball before that year but the closeness of the stadium and the quality of the baseball I got to watch there turned me into a Sarasota Reds fan. I had a permanent ticket directly behind home plate within easy heckling distance of whatever hapless soul happened to be playing against "my" Sarasota Reds. I had a great time heckling and actually once had a player from the St. Lucie Mets throw a baseball bat at me to shut me up after I made a less-than-complimentary comment about the size of his penis as he stood at the plate.

Joe Ayrault and his team had no idea who the hell I was. They just knew that no matter where the game was or who they were playing, that mouthy bastard would be behind home plate trying to distract their opponents.

The Sarasota Reds had a less than excellent year in 2009 but it wasn't because of the coaching provided by Joe. There were kids like Devin Mesoroco and Dave Sappelt and Yonder Alonzo who played for the Reds who were top notch players. And in fact if none of them are playing in the Show in 2012 I think I'm going to have words with Reds management about why they aren't up there.

But I digress.

Despite their less than perfect record the Reds were lucky because they had Joe Ayrault as their manager. Not since the ninth grade in 1966 had I been around a manager who was so much like a female Kodiak bear protecting their young as Joe was around his kids on that team.

If I was a betting person I would have made millions betting that in the sixth innning of any Sunday afternoon game during the 2009 season something would happen and Joe would go ballistic. He would fly off the bench and get in the face of the umpire and invariably get kicked out of the game. I particularly remember one game against the Charlotte Stone Crabs where Joe simply lost it with an incompetent umpire and let him have it verbally. Joe was kicking dirt over home plate (always a huge no - no) and throwing a tantrum and finally said to the umpire "you blind motherfucker my six year old could call a better game than you can." Joe was immediately ejected from the game (as we expected) and he walked from the field to a standing ovation of every Sarasota Reds fan in the audience.

Throughout the season I missed about 8 games (away and home) that the Reds played but I never said a word to the team or introduced myself to them or anything else. Instead I was just this giant pain the ass of whatever team happened to play the Reds.

The final game of the Reds life was held in Charlotte against the Stone Crabs on September 6, 2009. I was there to watch the game and to cheer on my team. Before the game began a bunch of the players were hanging out signing autographs and I saw Joe in the bench area so I walked over to introduce myself to him. Here verbatim is how the conversation went:

As the game was getting ready to begin Joe saw me standing by his team and walked up to me. Without introudcing himself he said to me, simply, “so who the fuck are you, anyway?"

I asked asked what he meant and Joe said, "It didn't matter where we were playing or who we were playing you always sat in the same seat behind home plate. You started heckling whomever we played from before the first pitch was thrown and you didn't let up until the last out. You were relentless. I asked my team if you were a father of one of the kids on the team and nobody knew you. So who the fuck are you?"

I told Joe that I was a retired wildlife biologist who moved to Sarasota and discovered the Reds. I then said “when I watched you guys play you took me back to the days in high school when I was a baseball player. Watching you made me feel like a kid again, and I knew that I had to do something to help you win, even if you couldn't."

Joe asked, "So did you make it to the minors?"

I told Joe I never made it past high school baseball.

Joe then said, "So what position did you play?"

I said "I was a catcher from ninth grade on."

Joe chuckled and said "That explains everything!"

After the 2009 season the Reds disbanded. They moved to Lynchburg Virginia as an affiliate of the Reds and Joe lost his job with the Reds organization. Later however he was picked up by the Helena Brewers of the Advanced Rookie League for the Milwaukee Brewers and he coached for two seasons in Montana. His family stayed here in Sarasota while he was out west.

Meanwhile the Bradenton Marauders (High A Affiliate of the Pittsburgh Pirates) filled the void left by the departing Sarasota Reds and became the local minor league team.

Over the last two years I really missed Joe not only for his on-field antics and the fact that he openly appreciated my heckling and what I was trying to do to help his team, but also most importantly for his ethics as a manager. He's a good one and deserves to be in the Show some day. Yet he was stuck out in Montana and there was little chance I would ever get to see him in person unless the Brewers organization came to their senses and promoted him to Milwaukee.

Well....imagine my elated surprise when tonight a mutual friend, Debbie, informed me that it was official. Joe Ayrault was returning to minor league baseball in the Florida State League. He was to become the manager of the Brevard County Manatees, the High A Affiliate of my home state Milwaukee Brewers.

I almost couldn't contain myself when I heard this great news because to me a real hero of baseball was returning to Florida and now I could watch him and his kids in action. Joe apparently told Debbie to make sure I knew he was going to be with Brevard County and that he was looking foward to hearing me heckle from the stands.

There's just one thing. As much as I appreciate Joe Ayrault and his ability as a manager there is simply no way I could ethically heckle or harass any team of his. Instead this evening I became a fan of the Brevard County Manatees!

They play about 3 hours east of me on Florida's Space Coast so I won't be able to get to all of their games. But when they are on this side of the state I want to be sitting directly behind home plate and I will use every heckling tool I have to help Joe's teams win. I can't ethically heckle the Bradenton Marauders because they are technically "my" team geographically but the rest of them - fair game.

Joe and I both share a mutual disgust for any team that has the word "Yankee" in their name and I know I will be in Tampa when the Manatees are in town. I personally cannot stand the Clearwater Thresher Sharks (Philadelphia Philllies High A team) because I was threatened by several of their fans one night while heckling for the Sarasota Reds there in 2009. When the Manatees are up in Clearwater guess where I will be.

The St. Lucie Mets and the Palm Beach Cardinals - your ass is mine. And those pussies down in Port Charlotte - the soft crabs or whatever your name is - the entire team despises me from the last three years. When you play the Manatees you've not heard anything yet. And of course there is that team in Fort Myers that plays for the losers from the state just west of Wisconsin. I have a feeling I'll be in Hammond Stadium a bunch of times this summer but I won't be cheering on the Miracle!

It is so great knowing that my friend Joe Ayrault is going to be back in Florida teaching kids how to play real baseball with real passion and to never back down from a fight just like my ninth grade baseball coach did for me ages before Joe was even born.

And Joe....if you find some players on some Florida State League team that need special attention from the stands just send me a note and consider them no longer an issue.